


Good Game, Bad Manners

by DerRumtreiber



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Shameless Smut, Sorry Not Sorry, gratuitous bad video game references, just really bad jokes about it, no daddy-kink I swear, overwatch kink meme prompt, really bad jokes in general
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:36:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DerRumtreiber/pseuds/DerRumtreiber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Fine. If he wants to deal with a crying little kid and offer her ice cream and hello kitty Band-Aids for her scraped knees or whatever he thinks is wrong with her, let him. Bet he’ll never try it again.</p>
<p>'No one wants to fuck me,' she blurts out.</p>
<p>That… wasn’t exactly what she meant to say."<br/>---<br/>Wherein D.Va is really, really horny and just wants someone to bang her. plzkthx. Enter Soldier:76, the true American hero.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Game, Bad Manners

**Author's Note:**

> OW kink-meme prompt fill: D.Va is young, horny and surrounded by attractive people. Except every time she comes onto them it fizzles. Some don't notice, some laugh and say that's cute, some get awkward and say she is like a little sister or a daughter. She's basically given up until someone takes her up on her offer and they have hot sexy times.
> 
> This was not supposed to be this long, I don't know what happened. 
> 
> Also I live by the head canon that the only thing McCree can cook is breakfast, and video games from today are classics in 2086 or whenever OW is set.

Being a member of a freshly reformed, world-saving international task force is not without its merits. She never has to worry about the repair budget of her MEKA, for one thing, not even when she sends it hurtling into explosive oblivion three times within the first month. The pay isn’t so hot, but room and board are free and she’s always made more cash as a streamer, anyways. And the internet speeds. Oh god, the internet speeds. Nothing less than the best for Winston’s team. It makes her all tingly just thinking about it, so good she could kiss the scientist right on his big, fuzzy face. Knock those glasses right off.

Well, if he’d let her, that is.

He doesn’t.

He pushes her away gently, for all the brute strength she knows lays behind his cuddly exterior, adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose and looks vaguely perplexed in that same way he’d eyed the jar of peanut butter that time Lúcio had super glued the top on. Hana is a little offended. She’s no jar of peanut butter.

“I, uh… Hana,” he starts, voice all deep and grumbly and turning the tingle in her body into an honest spark. “It’s not that I. Well. What I mean is, I’m very happy to hear everything is running so smoothly. You just come back anytime you need help with something. With your computer. I mean. I can fix your computer. Or maybe your mech. Or, you know. That’s about it.”

She gets the hint.

“My rig is top of the line and I wouldn’t let any clumsy paws fumble around in my MEKA but my own, thank you very much,” she huffs, and feels a little bad because hello, low blow – Winston’s hands are _legendary_. Ordinarily she’d be honored.

As it stands now though, she’s hot and bothered and high off taking first in an international tournament ( _retired gamer – see: oxymoron_ ), adrenaline pumping steadily through her body. They haven’t had a mission in weeks. She needs to move, get her blood pumping. Gaming all day and night is great, don’t get her wrong, so great. But it ignites something in her, a need for _real_ action. The weight room’s not gonna cut it, this time.

Being a member of an international task force may not be without its merits, but being the youngest member has serious drawbacks. The salt is strong in this one.

She tries Lúcio next. He’s young. He’s buff in a lean, spends most of his time kicking around a ball and skating the much abused walls of the base sort of way. He’s basically her irl bff.

Apparently he’s also her defacto brother, emphasis on the _bro_. Or so he tells her.

“Totally honored, Bright Eyes. If we weren’t all covert-like I’d have to message the masses so they could flay me for skipping out on that offer. Like, I should probably just hang up my skates and ask one of the ninja guys to help me commit seppu-whatever it’s called. ‘Gratz on the win though, thought that smurf played familiar. You were great!”

He speeds off before she can insult him, too, and add him to the growing list of people who are convinced she will never grow up. She’s sure she’ll be glad for it later, but as it stands she kicks a crate labeled med supplies as hard as she can. Turns out it’s just as metal as it had looked and she spends the next three minutes jumping around on one leg, cursing the world, until Angela spots her and takes mercy.

“ _Kaninchen_ , you must be more careful,” Angela chides, and as the pain dulls to a throb Hana can’t help imagine what that voice could do to her if it were whispering in her ear, if there was a smooth, warm, pale body pressing her down into the hard floor, soothing and commanding all at once.

She could just reach out and grab that zipper at the back of Angela’s neck, slide it down, slip her out of that skin-tight suit and, OMFG she needs to get out of here, now. The last person she needs mad at her is the one who stitches her up every other week.

She splits, leaving a confounded doctor in her wake, turns a corner and runs straight into a wall.

Ok, it’s not a wall. Hana’s not an idiot. She has spatial awareness and has spent enough time sneaking around in the dark in search of late night marathon fuel to know where the _walls_ are in this hell hole, tyvm.

It will never stop astounding her how absolutely stealthy one Reinhardt Wilhelm can be when he’s out of his armor.

She looks up from her new seat on the ground, backside now twinging along with her poor, abused foot and her sorely beaten down ego. To be fair, she has to look up quite aways to find his face even when she’s standing at full height, but from down here. Damn. He’s like, two miles high, and those sweat pants leave nothing to her imagination.

He bends down a little, offers her a hand (huge, oh god), and the hand is right at hip height, right in front of (oh god, also huge)-

“Are you alright, _Liebling_?” he asks when she just stares. At his hand. She’s definitely staring at his hand.

“Fine! I’m fine!” she squeaks out, pushing herself to her feet and slipping around his towering frame to continue her desperate escape attempt.

Some things, she thinks, should just stay fantasies.

The lounge on base is big and comfy, could fit the whole team easy, but it’s rarely actually used. Most of the time they’re all busy doing their own things, keeping in fighting form, keeping up their non-Overwatch personas where applicable, out on recon missions. When they do congregate it’s usually in the kitchen, which is much smaller, but devouring epic levels of calorie filled grub is pretty much the one thing they all have in common. Some of them even know how to cook (even if it’s just breakfast - _see: McCree, Jesse_ ).

So she thinks she’s safe. Alone. If she can’t find someone who wants to be not-alone with her, this is absolutely the best alternative. She huffs softly, a little out of breath, and prepares to nurse her bruised pride in solitude. She’s not even horny anymore.

Ok, no, that one’s a lie. She’s still fucking ravenous.

“Hana?” a gruff, sleepy voice greets her from one of the couches.

She looks up, eyes adjusting to the low light of the room, blinds drawn against the setting sun. Of course, the one time someone’s in here and it has to be team Dad, taking a nap. Why is everyone in this base so freaking _old_?

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Why does everyone think something’s wrong? Like she can’t fix her own shit. She is _not_ a little kid. She was in the Army before she came here. She fights just as well as the rest of them. Why do they all want to fix everything but the one thing she wants help with?

“Nothing’s wrong,” she spits out, and even to her own ears it sounds childish.

Point, they treat her like a kid because she acts like one. There, she admits it. Life: 1, Hana: 0. You win, universe. Game over. Restart. Please, for love of all APM re-freakin-start.

He’s silent for a minute, probably trying to find the right old guy words to comfort poor baby D.Va. The soldier never half-asses anything, even if it’s coddling sad little crybabies it seems.

“C’mere,” he says finally. 

She goes, not necessarily because she wants to, but because when Jack Morrison says jump, you hit rocket boost and don’t ask questions. It’s kinda nice, in a way, to let someone else lay out the strategy. Most of the time she’s got no complaints.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, pulling himself up to sit and look her in the eyes when she stands in front of him.

He rarely wears the visor around base, but she spends so much time locked up in her own quarters that it’s always a bit of a shock. He’s totally an old guy. Not like, Reinhardt old guy. But still, really freaking old. He’s probably 40 or something.

But his face. Man. Thank you, technology, for super soldier enhancements. That jawline. Those eyes. Even the scars.

Sue her, alright. She used to play a lot of super retro games. She might have had a Metal Gear Solid poster pinned on the ceiling above her bunk back in her army days (totally forever ago. At least a year). Solid Snake is no guilty pleasure. No guilt at all.

Maybe a little guilt. It feels weird when it’s directed at Morrison. Daddy-kink? No, thank you. The guy’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.

But, they’re really tight jeans. Someone needs to teach this guy to dad properly if he’s gonna be so gung-ho about it.

“C’mon. Something’s wrong,” he presses, voice all gentle and low and soothing.

Oh, god. It’s Angela all over again. She makes to bolt one last time. To her room, where she can actually be alone. But he’s fast, probably sees her about to move before she’s even finished thinking about it. He grabs her wrist, not tight enough to hurt, but she’s seen him choke out an _omnic_. The things don’t even breathe. She’s not going anywhere.

Fine. If he wants to deal with a crying little kid and offer her ice cream and hello kitty Band-Aids for her scraped knees or whatever he thinks is wrong with her, let him. Bet he’ll never try it again.

“No one wants to fuck me,” she blurts out.

That… wasn’t exactly what she meant to say. It gets the point across, though, and life may have won last round but she’s pretty sure she gets mad points for overkill on this one. Go big or go home, right?

Maybe not. Clearly Jack SoldierDad Morrison is a Big Boss. Final level kinda deal. Should have accounted for that.

She thinks she sees his eyebrow twitch, and counts it a minor victory.

“That’s,” he starts slowly, clearly still in carefully-consider-the-next-words mode. “Certainly a problem. Of sorts.”

“You gonna fix it, _Daddy_ , or can I go to my room now?”

Ok, that one got a reaction. Good. Now if he would just let go long enough for her to get away and never, ever, ever show her face again outside her MEKA.

“Holy shit. Please never say anything like that again.”

Did his voice just crack? Score.

She puts on her best pout instead. “Like what, _Papi_?” she croons.

This is actually a lot of fun. Not the right kind of fun, for sure, but it’s better than nothing. At least she’s the one with the upper hand this time.

“No more Spanish lessons with McCree,” he grits out. “Ever. For anyone.”

She opens her mouth to say something else. She’s not sure what, but if she just lets the words fall out she’s sure it’ll be great. He covers her face with his free hand before she has a chance. Damn, countered.

“Just shut up, alright? You want sex? I can help you out there. Just. Stop. Please. No – _Daddy_ shit,” he cringes.

It’s a pretty funny look on him. She’s definitely counting this one as a win.

Wait.

Rewind.

_What?!_

She pries his hand away enough to take in a deep breath. “ _What?!_ ”

“You have a problem. I have a solution,” he says, and how can he be so stoic about this? “If you don’t like it, ok. Go.”

He lets her go. Takes both hands off her. She is surprisingly disappointed.

No more fake pout on her face. This time, the anger is real. “I don’t want pity sex from the crypt keeper.”

“Ok. One, ouch. I’m not nearly as old as that reference. Seriously. Stop it. Two, not pity sex. I’m not actually blind, you know.”

She considers the proposition, and puts herself on mute to stop the insults she keeps letting slip around everyone. She’s really just saying whatever she thinks’ll hurt at this point, even if it’s a lie. She’d totally take pity sex if that was all that was on offer.

Un-mute.

“Ok,” she says, slowly. Wouldn’t want the kill to run away when it’s finally in her sights. “My room?”

He looks a little pained at the thought. When has he ever even seen her- oh yeah. That one time she was late for team dinner and he’d come to find her. It’s not _that_ messy. She knows exactly where everything important is. It’s hard to lose a gaming rig as robust as hers. It’s only happened like, twice, tops.

“Let’s go to mine, instead,” he says, and his tone says that’s his final offer.

He stands up and walks out, doesn’t even glance back to see if she’s following. Of course she’s following. Half a step behind. No one would think twice about seeing the two of them trekking together through base, towards personal quarters. She is not blushing. Everything about this situation is totally normal.

They reach his room and the door slides open. They step in, and the door slides shut. Ok. Cool. Game face: On.

Jack turns around, crowds her a little into the door frame, not touching her anywhere, just… staring. It’s unnerving. She’s at a bit of a loss. She’s not exactly a new player, here, back home she’d had opportunity lining up around her corner, and she’d certainly taken advantage. But none of them had ever been, well, _Jack freakin’ Morrison_. The guy’s a hero. She’s used to being the one in that role.

She still is in that role, she tries telling herself. But it really, really doesn’t feel like it right now. Jack’s the real pro. She may as well just be watching the stream. ( _Note to self: come back to that thought later. Great potential_ ).

And then, suddenly, it’s not a game anymore. He doesn’t ask if she’s sure, or if he should go slow, or if she’s done this before like she thought he might (yes, she has thought about this before. It’s in the bank next to Reinhardt in the too-tight sweatpants, on the sparsely populated ‘lol like that’s gonna happen’ shelf).

His hands are on her. It actually takes a second to sink in. The situation is pretty surreal and she’d already convinced herself she was out of luck for the day. But they’re on her, her shoulders, first, toying at the stretched out collar of her t-shirt, thumbs warm and leather clad, grazing her already heated skin.

And then-

“What’s a SHINRA?” Jack asks.

“What’s – what’s what?” she stutters back, brain desperately trying to reboot.

“It’s on your shirt. What’s- you know what. Never mind,” he grumbles before she can catch up.

His hands leave her body for a moment and she is about to explode. If this is over already because her shirt is too stupid for words she doesn’t even know what she’s going to do. But, no, he’s just peeling off his gloves, pulling the hoodie over his head, rucking up his shirt in the process (oh sweet Gods of the Brood War, those _abs_ ), mussing his hair, before throwing them both to the side. His room is immaculate, spartan, but now he’s tossing things around like he couldn’t care less, like he’s got something better to think about. Yes, yes, _yes!_

He comes back in to cup her hips in his palms, slip under her tee to skim up her ribs and pull a giggle from her. She worries it’s going to put him off – he’d been adamantly against the whole age-play angle, she doesn’t want him suddenly remembering she’s _technicalllllly_ still a teen. But he just gives her a smug little smirk and digs in harder until she lets out a real, breathy laugh and he moves on, moves up, her shirt pulling up against his forearms and letting her stomach feel the chill of the room.

No bra. She’d forgotten about that bit – never wears one when she’s been playing for long hours, plus it really reels the new stream subs in. She’s not slutty, just entrepreneurial. She remembers pretty quick though when he grazes the underside of her breasts with both hands. He looks a little shocked himself, but far from displeased. She sucks in a breath on the tail end of her laugh, and he hears it. He groans.

She is so gone.

The shirt slips easy over her head, and he tosses it to the side to land on his sweatshirt, the growing pile a testament to the fact that this is actually, seriously happening. He’s about to raid her dungeon and she couldn’t be more thrilled.

She wants his hands back on her body, wants them to finish what they had almost, almost started. But he reaches out and pushes her hair back from her face, instead. It’s gentle, but the way he curls his hand around her chin and tilts her face up towards his own is less so. Not hard, but certainly unyielding.

“This first,” he says, and leans down to graze his lips across hers, soft and testing.

A little traditional for her taste, but she can work with it. He nips at her bottom lip, presses in and opens and she has no choice but to follow suit, mouth parting under his to let him in and let him explore. It’s not wet and messy like the boys she fooled around with back home. Soldier:76 is as precise and well trained in this as he is everything else.

She darts her tongue out to meet the one begging entrance and she can taste him. Coffee, duh, and something sweet. Something familiar.

She puts a hand against his chest and shoves him back. He moves, gives her an inch, clearly not expecting to be rejected.

“Hey!” she says, scowling. “Have you been stealing my twizzlers? I thought it was Lúcio!”

He looks at her like she just wraithed on him or something, maybe turned into a monster. Then his face cracks into a grin and he throws his head back and laughs. This is too much. Pity sex she would have taken, but being actively laughed at is a little more than she’s willing to abide. She moves to get away, looks over to her shirt.

He stops her, because of course he does.

“Stop, no. Hold on. I’m sorry,” he turns her back into him, pushes forward so her whole body is pressed into the cradle of his own, door at her back. He thumbs over her lips and dips back in for another kiss, sweet and short. “I’ll buy you more. I promise.”

D.Va may be a goddess amongst her fans, but she is sadly mortal in real life, and who could refuse that offer?

She sticks out her bottom lip in the same fake pout as before. “You better make it double.”

For real, she is amazing at business.

He chuckles again, but it’s not mean this time, just rumbles through her body, too, and she is aware of every inch of him that is pressing into her. Wow, yeah, _every_ inch. He nips at her mouth again.

“Sure. Double,” he says, and then his hands are exactly where she wanted them before.

She’s got nothing to be ashamed of in the chest department, but Jack is not a small man. She feels it in the way he cages her in, has to lean down to get at her mouth. In the way her breasts are totally engulfed in the cup of his hands. She feels the tempered strength in the way he kneads into her, the rough calluses on his fingers and the softer flesh of his palms. He twists at her nipples, not hard, just enough to roll them between thumb and forefinger and she can’t help the little mewling sounds she makes as she’s finally offered what she’s been needing.

“That’s good,” he hums at her, not like he’s asking. Just like he knows. It’d be condescending if he wasn’t right.

He bites at her jaw when she winds her own hands into his hair and pulls him down. He sucks a deep bruise just below her ear before worrying the lobe between his teeth, his breath hot and moist, voice a low grumble that might be words, or it might just be-

“Ah!” she cries out when he pinches at her a little harder, pulling her attention back from the blissful place of content that comes from finally winning.

“Come with me,” he says, and yes, yes please – but oh, he means back towards the bed.

She goes. No complaints about following orders snarking about in her head this time. He pushes her down to sit on the edge and kneels in front of her. She digs fingertips into his shirt, and he gets the point, tugs it over his head and lets it drop before he goes for her shorts. He makes fast work of the zipper, tugs them out from under her and slides them down her thighs, tugs her sneakers and socks off in the process when he reaches them.

“Lay down,” he says, his hands finding purchase on her thighs so she can’t slide back any.

She lets her body fall back against the mattress and sucks in a deep breath, trying to find some semblance of her calm. Nope. It’s gone. Totally out the window a while ago. Not coming back.

He slides a finger under her panties where they tuck into the crease of her thigh, runs it down and pulls the fabric aside, and just looks for a moment. She’s exposed now, completely, and he’s just watching. She’d be embarrassed if she could get the feeling to form properly in her chest, but she doesn’t have it left in her to bother. She’s ready for it. She was dripping before she’d even stepped into the room. The panties are definitely goners, casualties of war.

She tries to sit up, put her weight on her elbows so she can see the action, but he glares up from between her legs.

“Lay down,” he says again, and she lets her body drop. No complaints from her. If he wants to do all the hard work, that’s just typical Morrison.

The first ghost of tongue against her is almost enough to set her off. Her body is so taut – she needs this so bad. He dives in for real, then, lips soft and pliant against her folds, mouths against her, sucks a little, tongue swiping, sure and efficient, lapping, drinking her in. Her hands dig into the blanket beneath her as she tries to hold on for a little longer, unwilling to beg for mercy at the onslaught.

No, not that Mercy. ( _Although, again, potential_ ).

He eats at her like he’s starving, brings the hand not holding her last scrap of clothing back to scrape nails up the ticklish flesh of her inner thigh. He spreads her apart wider, dips this thumb inside to open her for his tongue, hot and wet and oh- oh- that’s-

She swears she feels him grin against her before he pulls back.

“Hey!” she says, but it doesn’t come out as accusatory as she’d hoped. It’s hard to convey annoyance when your voice is warbling and wrecked.

“Calm down,” he hushes her as he moves up, spreads his body on top of her own and pushes her into the soft bedding. “I’m not done yet.”

His face is shiny and slick, and when he leans in for a kiss she doesn’t hesitate too lap at his mouth, taste herself on him, pant out a whine against his lips. He grumbles a laugh at her, and slides so he’s just to her side, still pressed up but not crushing her.

“Gotta get these off before they kill me,” he says, reaching down to un-do his jeans and shuck them off. The boxers go with them, and it all gets a little more real as Hana glances down.

His eyes follow her gaze and he leans back a little to let her look, but he’s not still for long. Her panties are next on his agenda, and she wiggles to help him pull them from her hips. They catch on her foot and she flails a little trying to get them all the way off. When she catches his eyes she can tell he’s trying not to laugh. Asshole.

The minor humiliation is worth it. He pressed back into her side, naked this time, dick hard and trapped against her hip. She can feel a little wetness slick against her skin as he shifts, slides against her. She growls in anticipation. It’s apparently not very threatening.

“Said I wasn’t done yet,” he murmurs against her ear.

His hand slides all the way down her torso, from neck to belly button. He strokes at the taut skin of her stomach, teases the vee of her thighs, down one side and up the other. And it’s not that it doesn’t feel good – it feels really good – but she was about 10 seconds from a mind blowing orgasm when he’d moved out from kneeling in front of her and she would really like some more action. Right. Now.

He gets the hint before she has to say anything. His hand dips down, parts her folds once again, teases at her clit for a bare second – _too much, too much_ – before giving her what she wants. She’s still slick, saliva and her own juices actually dripping at this point, mixing with sweat to drip down and tickle at the crease of her ass. He slides two fingers into her, stretching her a little, and that’s it. That feels right. That’s the itch she’s been needing scratched.

Her body trembles and she sighs, happy and needy, a little breathless. He hums approvingly against her ear as he pumps his fingers in and out of her, twisting a little, curling up to hit just right. His thumb plays at her clit, sliding smooth, swift circles around the nub and that. It’s too much. She has to come. She has to.

“Jack, Jack, Jack,” she cries, until she can’t take it any longer and she clenches around his fingers, her body quaking, trying to draw him in farther as her orgasm rushes through her.

“Shh,” he whispers, easing her through the fading trembles of her body. “I like hearing you, but you’re gonna have the whole base kickin’ in my door, guns at the ready.”

She whines a little softer this time, and he pulls out, trailing his wet hand back up her side.

“Good?” he asks, and she buries her face into his neck with a happy sigh, nods.

“Enough?” he murmurs, and she glances down. His cock is still pressed against her, heavy and leaking.

She pushes herself up on shaky arms and looks down at him with a grin. “No way.”

He breathes out what sounds like a sigh of relief. She’s gotta wonder, when’s he gonna learn it doesn’t pay to always be the good guy? Well, she thinks as he reaches over to the nightstand by the bed and opens the drawer, roots around. Maybe it pays off a little.

He flicks the foil wrapper at her and she catches it.

“Why don’t you help me with that?”

It is absolutely her pleasure. But first, she pushes him properly on his back and ducks down his body, poises above his cock and takes a good, long look.

She glances up briefly to make sure he’s watching ( _she_ plays fair) before taking him in hand and leaning down to lap at the head of his dick, taste the pre-cum beading over so bad it’s dripping enough to slick her fist. She gives him a tug just to hear him groan and then pulls her hand away to swallow him down.

“Not too much,” he says, hand twisting gently into her hair. “Not gonna last.”

She pulls back, slowly, humming her assent. Maybe some other time. Because there is definitely going to be another time, and he better be ready. She rips open the condom, slides it on him, shimmies herself into position over top his body and grins at the look on his face. A little pained, a little shocked. A lot ready.

D.Va always brings her best game.

She reaches between her legs and takes ahold of him again, teasing the head of his cock against her slick folds, ruts her hips back and forth a few times just to really get a good feel for how big he is.

“Hana,” he groans, grips at her hips but doesn’t try to force her.

She grins down at him. “You ready, old man?” she teases.

“What did I say about- oh, fuck.”

She fits him against her opening, slides down and takes him in deep before he gets a chance to finishing chiding her.

She controls a MEKA five times her size for a living. She knows how to put that to good use outside the battlefield. Her thighs burn with the constant push and pull, but it’s a good burn, and he’s hot in her, filling her up like his fingers could only tease at. She doubts she’ll come again, not before him, but this is what she really wanted. Just to have something, someone, throbbing and alive inside her. Feel the build of pressure, hear him groaning out her name as she moves.

His hips press up as he meets her with every thrust. She falters a bit and they start to lose the rhythm until his grip on her hips tightens and he moves them both in sync, pulling her down onto his dick, burying deep in her, threatening to bottom out each time. She gasps as she rocks against him and his hips stutter, he speeds up. He’s close, and she needs it, needs to see him lose control, feel him pulse in the tight channel of her pussy.

He pulls her all the way down on top of him, her chest pressed and shifting against his own, his arm locking tight against her waist while the other hand reaches down to grab at the meat of her ass, pulling her body onto him right where he wants it for those final thrusts. He comes with a groan, face pressed into her hair.

She tries to keep moving with him, slowing down while he comes down from the high of his own orgasm. He tightens his grip around her, stopping her finally, and she breathes deep when he releases, sliding off and to the side to let him deal with the mess of the condom. He doesn’t tell her to get up and leave or anything, so she takes it as permission to lie back, stretch her muscles, get comfortable while he settles in next to her.

“Still think I’m an old man?” he teases, elbowing her gently in the side. They’re way too hot and sweaty to cuddle, though she wouldn’t be opposed to it later. It’s not like he’s gonna tell anyone.

“Hmmm,” she says, drawing the sound out like she’s really got to think about it. “I guess it depends on how you do in round two.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was very hastily edited, so if you see any errors feel free to point 'em out


End file.
